


I Don't Want to be Friends

by HazelNMae



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, then more fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-03 22:48:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelNMae/pseuds/HazelNMae
Summary: Written for the prompt: "I don't want to be friends."





	I Don't Want to be Friends

**“I don’t want to be friends anymore.”**

You would never regret it. 

It had been two months now and you were still embarrassed by it, but you’d _never_, _ever _regret it. 

Telling him you were in love with him was the best thing you’d ever done. You’d lived with it for so long. Had repressed it for so long. Had refused to believe he may reciprocate for _so long_. Telling him had been a long overdue catharsis. A release. 

Watching him fall silent after you said it, though, was fucking awful. Finally knowing, in that moment, once and for all, that he didn’t feel the same about you was the most painful thing you’d ever experienced. 

Still, you would never regret it.

You had been friends with Alfie Solomons as long as you could remember. Well, to be clear, you’d known Alfie Solomons all of your life, and while you were friends for most of that time, you also spent a few stints as enemies.

Alfie’s empire grew in success at the decline and fall of your father’s. Before Alfie, your father had run all the rum from London. The end of the war, though, brought young and ambitious men back home–men who better understood the world and were ready to seize it. Alfie was one of those men, and he took everything he’d learned all those years watching your father, and put it to use.

He never meant to ruin your father’s business, but he wasn’t sorry for it either. “All’s fair” and so forth.

But through it all, you’d remained friends. Your mutual admiration never allowing either of you to hate one another, despite the bad blood between the rest of your family.

And as much as you thought you’d never be able to hate him, you were now wondering if that was true. You’d never felt more terrible than you did this morning, rolling out of bed and onto the floor slowly so as not to get sick. You’d confessed your feelings to Alfie last night and, after his reaction, proceeded to drink all the whiskey you could get your hands on before stumbling home and passing out on the floor. At some point in the night, you’d gotten up desperate for water, but as soon as you remembered why you were in such a state, you’d flopped onto the bed and cried yourself to sleep.

This morning may be worse than last night, though, because now you face the reality of the situation. You told him how you felt. He’d not reciprocated. And now you have to quit your job. You can’t very well continue to work for him after embarrassing yourself so completely last night. But Jesus, how were you supposed to quit without actually having to see him?

You do your best to dress and cover up the mess you found yourself in. You walk sullenly down the street and in the direction of the bakery, cursing yourself under your breath and wishing there were another way.

You enter the building, as you have a thousand times before, and make your way to the hidden warehouse in the back. Without even stopping at your desk, you march straight for his office–you know it’s best to get it over with so you can just turn around and go straight home.

“Alfie,” you clear your throat, trying to sound more confident as you enter his office without knocking.

He’s concentrating intently on a piece of paper in front of him and you wonder if he even heard you–or even cared you were there. If you weren’t already hurt, it would devastate you to feel so neglected. 

Instead, you push ahead, wanting to get this all out on the table and walk away, once and for all.

“Alfie.”

“Hmm,” he responded, finally acknowledging you as he removed the small wire framed glasses from his nose.

“I only came in today to tell you that I can’t work here anymore.”

“What are you on about, (Y/N)?” he asks, turning back to his work.

“I quit,” you say now, resolutely.

“Well then, that’s quite interesting,” he says, leaning back in his chair and looking at you. “I don’t accept your resignation, love.”

“What do you mean you don’t accept it?” 

“You can’t quit if you’re fired, right?” He asks. 

And you can’t believe what you’re hearing. He’s actually firing you? For what, because you told him you had feelings for him? You’re the one who should be feeling indignant–not him. What gives him the right?

But before you can unleash your rage, he speaks up again. 

“You can’t work for me, (Y/N),” he adds, standing from his desk.

“I thought we were friends.” 

It’s all you can say, but you mutter it so quietly you almost don’t hear it yourself.

“I don’t want to be friends anymore.”

The tears you’d been holding back suddenly burst forth. With a sob, you quickly turn your back to him, hoping for a hole to open up in the wall and suck you out of this god-forsaken office. You can’t bear to look at him, but even more you can’t bear him looking at you. You won’t let him see you cry. He can’t know how much he’d hurt you. You came into his office ready to tell him off for good. Ready to throw every insult you’d ever secretly thought about him in his face. You’re tired of making excuses for his terrible fucking behavior toward you. You wish you’d never met him.

You take a moment to compose yourself and straighten your skirt before turning back to face him. 

But he isn’t there when you turn–at least not in your line of vision.

Instead, he’s kneeling on the ground, using his cane to steady himself and trying not to grimace with the pain you knew he felt.

He produces a small velvet box from behind his back, opens it, and holds it out to you.

The ruby shines brightly against the deep blue velvet it rests upon. If you weren’t so consumed with shock you would note that it was the most beautiful ring you’d ever seen. But that realization will come later.

“I don’t want to be your friend anymore, because I want to be your husband, right?” He says, smiling that stupid, smug smile he produces when he knows he’s bested someone.

“But yesterday–”

“Yesterday, love, you caught me off guard. I couldn’t very well let you show me up, could I? I fancy myself quite romantic, you see. Got a bit of a reputation to uphold.”

You’re shocked. Utterly blown away. Speechless. About to faint. 

All you can muster is, “Fuck you, Alfie,” through a chuckle.

“So that’s a fuckin’ yes?”

“Yes,” you say, unable to wipe the smug smile from your own face.


End file.
